


Sympathy for Mr.Whiskers

by lithiumAlchemist



Series: Bell the Prince [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Accidental Stimulation, Catnapped, Dom/sub Undertones, Doppelbanging, HTML/CSS heavy - not kindle or download friendly, M/M, Mid-Coitus aftercare, Narrative masturbation, Porn with Feelings, Toys, Trans Dirk Strider, Trans Male Character, some degree of Transformation, ultdirk being ultdirk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:55:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25035052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lithiumAlchemist/pseuds/lithiumAlchemist
Summary: A forlorn Jake is encouraged to discover the extent of his influence over Brain Ghost Dirk, blissfully unaware of the side-effects.(Needless to say, he gets far more than what he bargained for.)
Relationships: Jake English/Brain Ghost Dirk Strider, Jake English/Brain Ghost Dirk Strider/Ultimate Dirk Strider, Jake English/Dirk Strider
Series: Bell the Prince [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1845508
Comments: 11
Kudos: 113





	Sympathy for Mr.Whiskers

**Author's Note:**

> Happy motherfucking late pride month, you filthy homestucks. here's 23 pages of whatever the fuck this is
> 
> PS; mobile devices may only display some sections correctly in landscape mode, which provides for a better reading experience.

"Riddle me this, Casper."

The brain ghost stiffens, awkwardly turning to glare at you. While you have no way of verifying such claims, you’re convinced it must be a glare, whether his eyes are concealed by a pair of inscrutable shades or not. Why wouldn’t he be mad at you, after all.

"Say, you're supposed to be Dirk as I last saw the old boy, yes?"

"To a point. Searching for an exact definition will do us no good here, though, so i'd say i'm fairly like you imagine me."

He turns away far more casually than you imagine he would were he really mad, and his eyebrows pinch as he stares off into the night.

"Now you're going to ask me if you can consciously change that."

"Thinking of something of the sort."

"Correction: you were fantasizing about something of the sort. The terminology is important when it comes to the horrifying fucknasty barely contained in the depths of your brainspace."

You grunt in embarrassment, stuffing your face in the same velvet pillow you’ve been hugging from the moment you decided to climb onto the princess themed canopy bed, as though it could steer you back to reality. It hasn’t done the trick yet, but you feel a little less lost having something to hold on to, considering… well.

You’re in a cabaret.

Not exactly by choice, mind you. Jasprose was the one to up-and-summon a transportalizing contraption directly from the jaws of nonexistence and usher all of you in- You, Janey, and those two olive tinted trolls. None of you expected it to lead into a booming saloon with front row seating to a line of can can dancers and various assorted nourishments, although Jane wasn't at all displeased with the outcome! As red on the cheeks as she may have been, you've caught the way she furtively glanced at the catwoman and how the catwoman provocatively gazed back, tugging at her tie. You overheard them talking about "hammering out the kinks in our discussed purrrrrrlitical agreements" before the live band drowned it all out with bass and swing, and you decided it was none of your business. If you had to guess the grand finale of this episodic act, you'd bet all your chips on the fact these two were gearing up to dance the horizontal tango, and it won't take them much longer.

It's good to not be the center of attention at a party for once. You're thankful for how it allows you to disappear into the backdrop and do as you please. Even if there isn't a whole lot you want to do, you're thankful for how it allows you to scurry around and hide without the expectation of being needed. In your explorations, you took a spiralling staircase upstairs and found endless halls upon halls of identical numerically marked doors, some with paper signs flipped to green, others to red. That's when you understood just about everything there was to be understood about this establishment, and snuck into one of the rooms that didn't rattle with the thumping sound of carapacians getting busy.

The room was so garishly decadent it appealed to every single one of your overwhelming aesthetic sensibilities. A classic patterned wallpaper adorned the walls, paired with thick and heavy curtains that framed a singular window permitting moonlight to pour in. Hitting the lightswitch made a small chandelier flicker to life, revealing a generously sized canopy bed carved from black mahogany and dressed in sheets that were an exuberant royal purple. The mattress took up most of the room just by itself, which was so very straight-forward. 

You didn’t want to seem too eager, but you _did_ rush straight into the embrace of the comforter blanket, leaving your fur coat pooled at the lap of an empty chair by the door, and you _did_ copiously sob some of the vodka out of your system into one of the many velvet pillows as soon as you could get ahold of them. You figured you could just lay here for the night, moping about the same twenty familiar things that made you miserable these days, and maybe with some luck even take a reinvigorating nap. Then the high-collared spectre of your runaway beau had the indecency to clip through the floor, inviting himself in as he always does. He took a look at your pitiful state and decided he was better served brooding out the window, not speaking a blasted word.

Which brings you to the present predicament, up to the point where you blubbered out of your mutual stoicism agreement by being a fool. 

You just feel so fucking lonely, all the time. It's hard! It's hard and nobody understands! Nobody is even _here_ anymore, they all left you behind, like you couldn't help but be an irritating pebble bouncing around in their brand-new shoes, always vexing, never welcome. 

Even the ghost is naught but a mockery made out of your hamstrung heartstrings. The truth, the ugly and flat part of it, is that his presence should unsettle you. It should frighten you, at least a little- it should in the very LEAST anger you. But it doesn't. Instead, thieving a peek at the moonlit profile of Dirk Strider awkwardly hunched over the windowsill looking like he's wracking his brains to parse why this universe looks slightly more pixelated than the last one makes your heart do this pathetic little squeeze, like you're playing stressball with it. He has stupid little sideburns, you half-notice half-chastise yourself; you shouldn't feel such things for a man who walks around in a popped collar and stupid little sideburns.

"Yeah, and i suppose every high-class daddy worth his spunk needs to have a rat glued to his upper lip." He huffs out in immediate response, and you jump. "You know, your thoughts can get unbearably loud sometimes, but i can’t figure out why only the dumbest ones travel through. Is it because you aren't cagey around them? Some lax subconscious channel sort of shit?"

"Perhaps you should begin to consider all my thoughts are terribly stupid, Dirk. I imagine it would save the pair of us a lot of grief."

"Don't say things like that." 

You're taken aback for a second. He sounds so genuinely offended on your behalf you feel childish. You consider going mute before your self-deprecation manages to disappoint him any longer.

Instead, you keep talking. 

“Can you come sit with me?”

“Sure.”

His feet aren't planted on the ground. His body maneuvers in the air like a weightless vehicle, and instead of simply hovering above you Brain Ghost Dirk goes through the trouble of reaching for the other side of the bed, climbing in like he means to sleep and his body belongs to the right side of the mattress. It's an oddly domestic sight. His hands lay crossed at his chest, the mask he wears as a face tipped towards you.

The blankets and pillows clip straight through him.

“Shoot.”

It's hard to concentrate with ballroom music blaring under your feet, timed by the tempo of breathless moans from all the locked rooms next door. 

Regardless of what the tabloids say, you’ve never had a dalliance with a carapacian. You’re not quite sure how they... do the do? Or even if they have similar equipment, locked out somewhere. You’re usually not awake enough or sober enough to eavesdrop, commit it to memory. Hell, for all you know they could be engaging in very enthusiastic heavy petting. And you must admit compared to the prime specimen laid right before your eyes, you are quite fond of firm flesh. The breathing movement contained in the rise and fall of a ribcage, the tension in a fellow's jaw, stiffening up his shoulders and trailing down his spine. Even as a junior appreciator of the finer muscular arts (because no one can beat Dirk's investment on extreme bodybuilders, of this you are wholeheartedly sure,) you can tell that something has got Dirk bothered. It unsettles you.

Your right hand reacts before the rest of your synapses can catch up, and you watch yourself drunkenly attempt to pet the curve of Dirk’s cheek and fail uselessly at it. It’s odd. You’d expect a shiver, a slight cold, anything when trying to touch him, but there’s nothing at all. No confirmation he even exists outside of your noggin. He laughs.

“That feels funny.” At least for him, you guess. “But if you want to get somewhere you’ll have to put your back into it.”

“Where do you suppose i’m trying to get?”

“I dunno. Fancy suite, bedroom eyes, handsy impulses… a guy starts to get all sorts of outright salacious ideas.”

You sputter, retreating like he’s caught you peeking with one hand fumbling at your dick.

“It’s not like-- Oh blast it all. What does it matter anyhow! You’re as real as i am sober, and that’s… that’s putting it kindly.”

“I dunno, that’s a good theory.” He shrugs, turning on his side towards you. You get the slightest hint of amusement from the tug of his lips. “We’d benefit from testing the limits of its veracity if you plan on making sweet, sweet love to me anytime soon. Otherwise...”

“Otherwise?” You quirk a brow.

“Otherwise. We’d benefit from you trying a little more _creatively._ Come on, you picked this set of smoking fuckin’ duds for me, but you’ve never given it a passing thought? You could do so much more.”

“Like… what?”

“I dunno, figure it out, big guy. I’m your brain ghost and you still have no idea what i’m capable of, shit’s embarrassing.” 

“Well I didn’t have much of a reason to fuss over it in the past six or seven years, now did i!”

“And yet. The sweetest irony thrives in the fact you were able to dream me up as soon as you panicked about never seeing me again. You didn’t even have to try. Poof! I’m snatched from the suffocating squeeze of the tendrils of the eternal and oppressive abyss of total irrelevance and my creator, my totally uncaring God, can’t bring himself to give an inch of a shit.” He’s unwound. The stress you vaguely recognized mere minutes ago comes rippling out in droves, most of it releasing through the rapidfire movement of his smart mouth. “You wanna know what i think, English?”

DIRK: I think you’re playing a game with your arms tied behind your back. And i hate it.

Your breath catches in your throat. You know Dirk has felt it too, a snap and crack in reality that amplified every single one of your senses into painstakingly raw and hyperrealistic Bluray HD. A loose cable in the Matrix suffering from bad contact, like an audio jack that needs to be twisted and taped in just the right way to function. And it lasted for just about a second. 

Did you do that? You can’t bring yourself to ask. Dirk’s looking at you like you’ve sprouted a seventh head, and you still can’t see his eyes from behind the shades, but you imagine that’s what’s happening because he’s gone eerily still and quiet and stiff and oh no, no no no. Did you break him?!

“Dirk?”

He rises so quickly to sit up on his haunches you’re afraid he’s glitching through the air.

"Do it again."

"What?"

Dirk looms over you, planting a forceful hand on each side of your head for effect. He couldn't trap you under him even if he really wanted to, immateriality and all, but the intensity contained within his limbs is enough to make you comply. You shut your legs as though you're able to feel his knees coming to a halt on the sides of your hips. He's comparatively small when juxtaposed with your broad form, but you've had a lifetime to unlearn the silly habit of underestimating him.

"Do it again, but this time with more feeling."

"I'm afraid I don't know the first thing about doing that!"

"Are you shitting me? You just need to let go of the whining and get your hands in there. Flow into your happy place, or your angry place, whatever. Come on, Jake, tug me like a marionette. Whipcrack me into a real boy. Don't you want to?"

You're not sure you do!! Not at all! Just what in the world does he think you are, some sort of… Of… Fiendish cad? A presumptuous and meddlesome scoundrel, with no care for the world or people's personhood or both? You don't want to be any of those things. In fact, you can't think of "wanting" anything but these inconvenient, unreadable optics of his _off._ You haven't caught a glimpse of his eyes in months, for chrissakes!

Brain Ghost Dirk's obstinate glasses melt away from the bridge of his nose, dissipating like warm wax being pulled from a gooey candle. Uncertain orange eyes lock with yours, shadowed by faint but persistent stress lines. He's exactly as you remember him, if not more accurately battered.

"Oh, shit," You squawk, because this is really friggin' _weird._

Dirk actually smiles at you, trying to brush off tremors unsteadying his clamped arms. He looks like a nervous hyena, scared off by a bout of sudden lightning and thunder. It's a rushed, haphazard consequence of being stripped of his defenses, hidden under a pair of lips that purse as quickly as the smile once came.

"You're unbelievable." He says, and you hope the leap your heart takes with the slightest bit of acknowledgement isn't plastered all over your dumbfounded face. Sustaining eye-contact _this_ up and close already sets your cheeks ablaze, sending blood rushing under your dark skin. 

If there's one thing you miss, aside from the painfully obvious "realness" attribute, is the warm and rich bronze of his sun kissed skin. You’ve always thought Dirk ended up absorbing it, like Superman. The sun, you mean. All that time straining under the mercurial whims of maritime weather ended up shrouding his person in a veil of perpetual summer. It's funny, that he runs as warm as the machines he tinkers with, yet never seems to notice. Or maybe that's all in your head. The arms he uses to pin you down now are more like opaque frosted glass in that regard. A poor man's substitute. A hint of color only goes so far, and he shimmers like a far off hologram, like one from a Y2K romp. You raise your hands, meaning to run them down the sides of his torso, and you only stagger at a couple of "Oh. Okay," and "It tingles." that drip from his lips.

"A bad tingle?"

"A warm tingle."

 _I did that!_ you think, puzzling over the repercussions. You don't need to touch him for him to feel it, you just really want to. Right, that sounds useful.

Dirk looks at you like he's trying to decode a superscript message in the Rosetta Stone, and whatever gibberish it carries is dreadfully unsafe for work.

"Undress me." He rests his forehead on your chest, biting his lip as though the words cause him psychic damage. "I'm not in the mood to beg for it, but i will, if that's what it takes."

You rip the tight polo shirt from his skin with a sharp drag from unseen hands, like a scalpel brushes excess paint off a loaded canvas. He's apparently surprised by this, because he scrambles to sit up as though you've just spanked his behind. It's not until you focus on the arms crossed over his chest that you recognize the issue. You took the undershirt with the rest, you big tottering idiot, the freefall weight to his chest must've taken him off balance. 

"Sorry! Uh, umm, would you... like me to put it back?" You pull your hands back as far as they can go, awkwardly obstructing your vision. Now, more than ever, you're painfully aware of your careless impulses as a direct result of how much wine you've had. You see Dirk take a moment to consider you and then himself through the gaps of your fingers, and his arms carefully drop as he steadies himself upon your lap.

He doesn't look at you, but his face is flush when he speaks.

"-'S fine. Didn't figure it would work so well is all. Nothing you haven't seen before."

You're a little more careful to leave his briefs on when you disintegrate his pants, and wind up leaving his socks, too. Dirk looks slightly impressed, holding an eyebrow high, no doubt attributing a footnote to his assessment of your developing skill. Surprising him is just a bonus now. You're sure he can't feel it, but your brain is processing the naked man straddling your lap as though he's far more than a mirage, and your groin is eager to respond appropriately. You're starting to feel a little hot under the collar. It's embarrassing to get worked up like this without as much as a kiss, but you're not complaining. You do give your tie a loosening tug, just in case. Sheesh!

You wonder how much of this metaphysical hocus-pocus you're able to do. Or, more specifically, how _far_ you could go. Sure, you just learned how to make things disappear into the ether, but that's a done and old trick. You want something spicy. You want to make something appear! But just what would that be? Hmmmm…

You close your eyes.

Even if you focus, it's impossible to tune out the smooth rhythm of the saxophone solo ripping up the heavens in the ballroom downstairs. Your mind swims, adrift, into conjured oceans of people, flippy skirts, coils of smoke and poker chips. Your brain rings with the heightened clink of glasses, the laughter of the patrons, the shuffle of feet and fabrics. And undercutting it all lay the persistent drums, the heat of a percussion marked by none other than the purr of a pampered housecat.

You hear the chime of the bell ring right before you see it. Your detour is interrupted by how close it sounds, how loud it is, and prying one eye open rewards you with the sight of Dirk pawing at his neck. Well, his hands aren't paws, _yet,_ but he inspects the round and obnoxiously large golden attachment held to the leather collar like it's an alien egg. When he flicks at it, it bobs so forcefully his breasts jiggle.

"Please tell me my face isn't about to start animorphing any second now. Or better, do, because I need to be ready for when that shit happens." 

And then you decide you're not done yet. 

His low cut socks stretch in ribbons over his knees, squeezing around his thighs. You see that as good, and tug the length of his gloves up to his forearms to match. Black on black, he looks absolutely ravishing. You fantasize about running your rough hands up his abdomen, petting the rolls of his hips. About slipping them under the back of his briefs and giving his ass a champ's squeeze, something to rut against. You assume it works, but not entirely like you intended it to, because his body doubles over consumed by shivers, and the most delicious of sighs accompanies his descent. A cat's tail the color of hay unfurls from the bottom of his spine as he flails to grind on your crotch, the material of his being woefully mismatched with yours. You admit to enjoying the desperation in the way he whines, all the sharp cutting angles and muscles and scars suddenly amounting to something so delicate you could mark with a nip of teeth. Tufts of hair at the top of his skull turn to fuzzy pointed ears, as triangular as his shades were, and when he opens his mouth to grasp at them and act scandalized about it, about all of this, his teeth grow sharp little fangs.

"Aren't you just the prettiest thing!" Unbound by any trace of reason, you coo at him.

He clicks his tongue, and mutters a string of handcrafted insults so unusual you suspect he had been saving them for a special occasion, but you've just foiled his plans.

"In hindsight," He hisses, squeezing at his still-twitching thighs-on-tights like they're the world's most despicable backstabbers. "I _should_ have guessed you would make me into some sort of fuckup blueberry abomination."

"You're a far cry from a Na'vi, pumpkin."

 _'Pumpkin. Goddamit.'_ He mumbles back into the air, painfully unaware of the angry swishing of a tail behind his back, still trying to swing at something with a bunch of flustered words. 

The path of your eyes veers off from the way he worries at his lip to the darkening spot on his tight white briefs, and for a moment, you hum with your thoughts. You can't touch him directly, but maybe you could… find a way around it, poor thing, you'd hate to leave him like this. 

Dirk's hips buckle when you scrunch the sides of his cotton-soft underwear and tug them upwards, driving the silky cloth into his dick, between his folds, right to the point it wettens. It's not nearly enough, you know it just as well as he does, but he parts his legs for you all the same, propping his body up with an arm from behind and the advantageous boon of flight. From your lower-vision vantage point, the sight is enough to make you squirm on the spot. His brows furrowed, mouth slightly slack, hips pointed towards you, rocking slowly to the tug of your wishes. He groans every time the cloth drags over in just the right way, but it's clear he would rather stick a hand under his pants and get it over with than be edged into the precipices of nowhere. 

It's the _Please. Jake, Jake, do something. Anything._ That snaps a chord pulled taut within you. 

You sit up with your pants set on fire. At this point, Dirk loses balance and floats up the air to avoid plummeting, drifting to the empty side of the bed. You make an horribly obnoxious concentration face. You think of a dick. Any dick. Well, no, actually, scratch that. Not _your_ dick, because if you have the ability to choose right now you're not going to invest the fire in your loins in the most dreadfully boring option. You feel a little bit dizzier vertically than you felt horizontally, but make a split-second decision to consciously not think about the consequences of whatever sort of reality mangling you're engaging on at the moment, because in the depths of your mind, you're certain you've found the perfect thing. 

This stray concept of matter swirls in the air like a rupture in dubious canon, a clean white hole punched through a draft page. It bloats and stretches over and over again, struggling to assume a definite form, until it finally manifests with a loud POP! Falling onto Dirk's lap with a satisfying thump. It's an extravagantly colored, personally crafted, and lovingly envisioned novelty dildo by yours truly, shamelessly modeled after what you may (or may have not!) have theorized an actual Na'vi packs. Although maybe... Theorized... isn't the word. Guessed? Dreamed? Fantasized? That ought to do the trick.

For one, it has ridges. The shaft is well rounded and agreeably soft, but it starts slimmer at the tip and slowly widens in girth as it goes down. Secondly, it ends in a knot. 

This, of course, is great material for prodding from your partner in crime.

Dirk whistles.

"Oh wow. What's this for? Wait, no. Don't tell me." He surveys the toy with great interest, holding back on a smirk. "You down to watch some squishy jello eggs pop out of my pussy?"

His hand travels from the artfully crafted bumps to the chubby knot painted in a rich blueberry hue at the very base of the model, but a pitiful squeeze reveals it to be solid.

"Huh, really thought it'd be a bit hollow."

"Maybe you haven't got my number as well as you'd thought chap! i'm a little puzzlebox full of surprises."

You both decide to play coy around the fact this creative decision was clearly influenced by a chain of comments involving both present parties. That's always fun. Keeps blame at arm's length.

"Funny looking toy for you to pick, wouldn'tja say?" He tests the slight weight of the blue dick in his hand and it wobbles, held loosely by its protruding knot. The way the tip bounces up'n down in the air in response to his waves seems to amuse Dirk to no end, whom cannot deny himself the pleasure of an entertained chuckle.

"The color looks good on you." You half-heartedly attempt to argue and he grins, teeth flashing as a predator's on a strictly carnivorous diet. He wasn't complaining.

" _In me,_ you must mean."

And there's that spark you really love.

If there's one thing to be certain about Dirk Strider, is that the man loves a good old-fashioned challenge. He's not a betting man, never was, but he's a _gambling_ sort. The semantic distinction matters in cases such as these. You could tell him no fellow in recorded urban history has been able to give a good lick to the nape of their own neck, and Dirk would machinate insane ways to contort himself and prove you wrong. Maybe lose his head in the process, in an effort to complete the task by bringing his engineering tools out of the allegorical box. He's such a diabolical little thing, your Dirk, and the outright defiance in the way he carries himself is one of his best qualities, you think. He'll do it for the joke, for the glory of doing it, for the acknowledgement that he's pulled it through, and he'll dare you to look at him, to _witness it as it happens._

Telling him "no" becomes rather difficult when his propositions can be so… attractive. He's graduated with honors as an expert guesser on that which you can't refuse.

"Why yes, if you feel so inclined to give it a ride! It'll most certainly look even prettier underlined in lush pink."

Dirk pops his wet lips, licking the top in an exploratory gesture. In his grasp, it might as well be an over-glorified lollipop. He can trace the oblong and slightly spiky azure head with his mouth. He can take the length of it some ways into his throat, you bet, but he's looking up in a way that means to tease you for thinking about it. _This is just meant to be lubricant, dude, pipe down._

You sigh wantonly when he lowers himself on the soft mount of pillows, shimmying out of his pants, leg thrown up slightly in the air, still toying with the length of it. When he trails a line from his breast to his navel with the shiny head he's just polished with spit. Your body leans to follow his as though you’re drawn together by a magnetic field, but you catch yourself on the act and will your spine to not chase after him any further.

You were right about one thing, though. When the gradient of blues and purples is placed against the soft underbelly of his dark skin, slowly rubbing between his pliant folds and parting his lips in totally thrilled anticipation, he looks gorgeous. Prying your eyes away would be unthinkable, it would be a crime of the highest regard. You watch him fiddle experimentally with it, sit up, and try to ride it instead. He's too eager at first, so it slides right past him, standing between his legs. Dirk allows himself to laugh at it, and you religiously watch that melt into a grateful moan when he gets it right on the second try. Slowly, this time. 

A long dormant and fuzzy feeling stirs inside you. It's remarkably hard to ignore.

"I wish i could touch you so badly."

At this point, Dirk is too caught up slowing down the shaft in wobbly knees to come up with a dignified retort, breathless. But he looks at you. Heavy lidded and fluttering, but he looks at you, full of want, and doesn't stop. It's nothing like a glare. On second thought, you don't believe that's ever been the case. 

==>

ELSEWHERE, IN THE COLD ANNALS OF SPACE:

Something is wrong, and the Prince won’t realize just what until it is much too late.

It starts off as a pleasant, almost booze-like buzz. Like a flickering light, tingling the surface of his skin. It’s not an uncommon sensation, especially when the Prince finds himself prostrated over the paper-riddled surface of his custom kotatsu, working diligently with his legs comfortably tucked under the thick green quilt that’s been narratively enhanced to never, ever, lose a certain nostalgic smell. The warmth radiating from the electric heater built into the table wraps around his exposed legs much more comfortably than his set of bandages, and honestly speaking, it’s the only thing keeping him from backtracking on the creative decision to ditch the godtier tights. (Sure, they looked unbearably campy, but so do the pantaloons he’s customized, and at least the nylon on that shit kept him warm at all times.)

Point being: he’s feeling cozy as fuck. Could beat the joy of a pussycat basking on a sunbeam. Making great strides on panel-oriented art practice, fiddling with a thousand software shortcuts to ensure he won’t have to ceremonially chop off his right arm and resort to growing a new one, if this whole freelancing narrative demiurge ordeal is to advance smoothly, flexing his chad verbiage while he's at it, the works.

And then out of nowhere, he’s hit. The tips of his toes curl and his hips _jerk_ forwards with a jolt. Dirk is arrested by the sudden impetus to brace himself against the edges of the table, as though he might fall and clip through the floor. Before he even has a chance to register what’s happening to his body, his eyes fall shut and his mouth parts to give way to a staggering, deviant moan slithering its way out of his throat— far more loudly than he would’ve ever permitted. It lingers against the still air of the quiet captain chambers, the first spoken word in what could be weeks, and it feels like an accusation.

He’s instantly mortified. Cheeks burning hot, mouth snapping shut with a click of teeth. Spine pulling back stiffly, betraying quivering thighs. His hands go rigid where they grip the kotatsu.

_That’s… New._

For a suspenseful minute drenched in utterly pathetic paranoia, he wonders if this could be the work of the dead cherub. The utter hag.

But no. It couldn’t be. If that was the case he would’ve felt her presence, he would have clocked the forked alien tongue poorly disguised as his sophisticated prattle in a split fraction of a nanosecond. If it was her— and of this the Prince is eerily sure— she wouldn’t have bothered to cloak the intrusion at all.

Though this leaves him with a far more awkward option on his hands, because he’s not sure he wants to think about Terezi breaching his privacy and all the sense of "healthy boundaries" they had silently agreed upon to test some sort of Mind-Body aspect impulse that compels him to… what, be horny? It makes no fuckin' sense. Dirk knows for a fact the strident alien chick is too busy banging his robot daughter to hit on him because as stated beforehand, she’s not exactly the definition of “stealthy”. Besides, she thinks he’s as attractive as a malnourished mutt. Actual quote, although it's difficult to know how positive of a rating that is with her peculiar taste. Would he have to begin stating disinterest more forcefully?

Dirk decides to rule out narrative meddling altogether when the pit of warmth in his navel shows no signs of dialing down. He’s never felt anything like it, this liquid phantom of arousal flooding upwards from the bottom of his being, bubbling up with irradiated warmth like he’s about to boil. Yet there’s not a single word or pressing command in his mind. Not even a friendly tip. If anything, he’s drawing a worrisome blank.

What's more, he's in a rut. Or would very much like to be. There's no friction where the numb, pleasurable motions are flaring through his body. He misses something to rub against, to give himself a solid sense of pressure.

A lesser man would have freaked out.

Dirk Strider pushes the heel of his palm between his hypersensitive inner thighs and grinds vigorously.

He stutters to lick out a sigh, his head lolling back in response. There's an obscene curve to the shape of his lower back as he rocks onto his hand, savouring the hard and bumpy pressure to go with the spikes of pleasure sparking across his nervous system.

And like a snake enacting a stealth ambush in high grass, it comes again. This coiling force restraining his being, making him squirm. When Dirk tentatively squeezes his legs together, he knows for a fact he’s slick already. And not even just that, it… he’s sensitive all over, a surge of blood rushing up his dick, the squeezing folds of his entrance looking for a stimulant that’s not there. Wanting. He knows this all too well, the relentless ebb of pressure working its way into his body inch by inch.

He’s not ready for the weight, though. Or the stretch, the comical fullness of it after being relegated to nothing for so long. When the distinct feeling of being fucked into by a smooth, sturdy object courses through his hips it’s like a dam breaks, and he tides over. Dirk only has enough time to bite his fist, stifling a needy scream.

In the heat of the moment, his mind invariably turns to Jake. 

==>

|  |   
---|---|---  
  
At some point Dirk decides turning around is in his best interests, and you can’t find it in yourself to argue against it.

He lowers himself down the length with shining effort, smoothly for the most part, but staggering the closer he gets to the base. It's wider as it goes down, but the knot is really the cherry on the bottom of the scone, as it were! You know from watching it's easier for Dirk to bob along the first three quarters of the dick, stopping just shy of where the violet gradient meets blue, to get warmed up with the shape and girth of it.

You really can’t find it in yourself to complain anyhow, enraptured by the hungry movement of his hips. Somehow, it all feels so explicit. Far more than it usually would! Maybe you’re far drunker than previously assumed, or maybe it’s the heartache— or the tummyrot— but the way dirk’s ass gains a little bounce to its quality as he fucks himself on bright blue xenocock, sweat glistening on a fine line running down his back, seems like the hottest thing you’ve ever witnessed.

JAKE: Oh heavens sake love… you have no idea what youre doing to me. 

You whimper, because you’re beyond playing the part of the unabashed fool at the moment.

DIRK: Yeah? 

Brain ghost dirk throws you a look from over his shoulder, mouth slack, his eyes dripping with desire. He gives the edge of his lips a lick, looking straight at you. When he speaks, his honeyed voice is breathless.

"Then-" He can barely gruff off a laugh, exertion getting the best of his attempts to hold up manliness. He’s shifting to steady himself on the balls of his feet, lowering his body onto the lavishly furnished pile of cushions piling atop the hard mattress.

Don’t take your eyes off me.

The movement deliberately causes the dildo to slide free, just slow enough that you’ve no choice but to fixate on how beautifully he rises off the head, a sticky trail of slick keeping them joined in sacrilegious matrimony. Dirk knows what he’s showing you, stuffing his now thoroughly disheveled lacquered hair on pink pillows, rubbing the fatty bits of his labia and circling the engorged tip of his clit just enough that the wet drips from his teasing fingers.

You could come in your pants. You’d still be as happy as a plum if you did. As it is, though, you’re palming yourself through the fine wool of your black shorts, suddenly in a directionless hurry to get out of them.

There’s more where that came from.

|  | 

You barely need to try to find him.

You know what you’re hearing is Jake’s voice as soon as it downs onto you. Lodged in the crooks of the memories of a thousand different Dirks, each in possession of their own erratic levels of Dirkness, rest little shards of the same ultimate archenemy, emissary of the ultimate showdown; the discombobulated, stupidly teethy, and perfectly emaciated face of Jake English. 

Your knees buckle. Your breath catches on your throat at one particularly forceful thrust and you can't help but laugh quietly to yourself. Despite the fact you're standing bent at your knees, belt undone at your feet, with your torso hastily propped upon a heap of newly discarded draft papers to present your service bounty up to the heavens —that's not the part you find particularly laughable. You can only contain how giddy you are to be toyed with like an inexpensive puppet, as just another use-and-abuse sex sleeve. 

In some temporary offshoot reality he feeds you strawberries from cloaked fingers, and you lick the remainder of their juice from leather gloves, eyeing a riding crop that hungers for your skin. In another you're riding him cowgirl so energetically the sound of your flesh smacking together verges on straight up fuckin’ nauseating. You're spotted with smears of car oil for some reason, lending this mechanic fantasy a wiry, greasy feeling of an XXXtreme 101 Dalmatians breeding frenzy parody flick. On a third, you have a huge dick, which for all thoughts and purposes is the complete opposite of your current predicament, but you're having the time of your life pistoning into the all-encompassing warmth of his being. Which is curious, since you can still feel the straps and buckles held snug against your hips, but you're not complaining. Jake’s shimmering skin is yielding under your grasp, and your face fits perfectly on the furry crook of his neck. You’re buoyant, weightless, and sated. You moan like a bitch.

Too bad you’re not real.

Here’s the thing about discardable Dirks: everything you need to know about them is preemptively told by the label. They’re great distractions, great experiences, certainly make up a lot of the spicy content in the reference folder floating by your desktop unironically labeled GOODSHITDONOTCLICK1 but purely as an immutable fact of existence, a sort of prerequisite to their pleasure, they’re ignorant. You’re not sure there’s a way for you to be happy whilst enlightened, and those of you that seem to hold the illusion of having both are next on the row for the chopping block, or liars. One way or another they never give you much trouble, regardless of where they slot in categorically. They're harmless headaches.

Brain Ghost Dirks are another thing entirely, because their entire metaphysical makeup is bullshit. Of course you’re aware they exist, only a fool wouldn’t, with the frequency they blink in and out of your radar and always seem to have their heads caught up in weird crap they shouldn’t be messing with (You don’t fully comprehend why this is, but you can take a polite guess something about being directly plugged into Jake’s brain and detached from any sense of individual responsibility may drastically traumatize even the strongest of men.) But their parameters of Dirkness are a little messed up. You think they just enjoy fucking with you, because they’re _you,_ which means they’re fully aware you’re on the dark for almost everything that has to do with them just as their connection to the pond of pure Âme De Strider is limited by a pesky English membrane.

And if you, **you** the reader, thought this segue was going to be about something wholly unimportant, that’s your own damn issue.

Because at the back of your mind (mine now, not yours. Just to reiterate.) one specific brain ghost bitch decided it was time to wreak some havoc, and he’s calling to you like a dewy venus flytrap does to a thirsty grasshopper. The problem here, despite all manner of red flags, is how he's having a palpable effect on you. You consider letting it be, ignoring the sparking neon sign saying "HERE, LOOK" in favour of a no compromise remote-guided fuck, but you're oh so _curious._ Your head's all fuzzy, all but entirely dedicated to vacating the premises and letting your body deal with the comedown of the delirious ache pumping into your pussy. _Leave the harlot be,_ your neocortex says, _we can pretend none of it happened later._

Your reptilian brain has its own take, however. _This whole thing smacks of Jake._  
  
It wouldn’t hurt to take a peek, right?  
Just for a second.  
You’re so close.

Dirk moves like he’s, well, if you had to put it in one word? Totally Insatiable. Dagnabbit, that's two words! Your own hand is too anxious of blowing your load too soon to wake up from a lethargic stupor, barely petting the surface of your cock. He’s sobbing with the force of somebody knocking on the gates of heaven, as he might as well be, flirting with the edge of the knot bumping against his taint. He really wants to take it, but it’s always larger than he expected it to be by the time his hips reach around it again. It’s a bloody damn workout, what it is.

His socks are sweat-slick and ruined, his legs stutter with every thrust, and his arms grab uselessly at the comforters for balance, his face propped down like he can’t bear to do anything else. The filthy squelsh of flesh on silicone times every pump, every strained breath and feverish moan. The ring of the bell drags against the bed. Sometimes he says your name, and you almost reach for him. It’s striking, the way he looks so flawlessly real.

You know you’re an idiot, but it’s… it’s almost like you could…

This body is so overwhelming, trying to point out the first thing that catches your attention when wearing it is like trying to poke a singular needle out of a haystack. But for the sake of organization, it’s the tail. Because you apparently have one, attached to your spine, and it flops around everytime you move. Your brain darts around like the last projectile in a pinball machine. _You’re cute as fuck. You have kitten ears. A bell! You feel so ridiculously horny you’re sure that either a)Jake has given you something. Or b)You’re experiencing the effects of a highly fictionalized heat kink. Fuck this feels so good. You’re in a weird plushy bed? You’ve drooled all over this pillow, holy shit. Is this a specialized brothel?_

The second thing you notice, for the sake of organization, is how your voice cracks in success when Jake reaches around and slaps your ass. _Thank fuck!_

That’s not what you say, though. _Wait, what?_

The third thing you notice is that you have no control over this body. Not an inch. Welcome to the sunken place, population: you, motherfucker. _Oh, so that’s how i’m playing it. See if I care. I'm fucking chilling._

Jake yelps like he’s just found a pot of gold, but it was far too hot to the touch. Then he slaps you again, afraid he dreamed it up the first time. It’s an appraising sting, waking up your senses. it burns up so good. You tighten around the toy and shake under his touch, pressing your rump up to his fingers. You can hear him scuffle with his own knees, taking hold of your hips. You give. _(Yes fuck yes fuck yes)_ Jake runs his hands down your thighs, squeezes and sighs into your skin. You beg him for more like an old prayer. _What? No._

|  |   
---|---|---  
  
Shut up. 

|  | 

_You shut up._  
  
He responds by licking stripes all the way down from the silicone cock to your taint, like a third wheel on the world's unlikeliest threesome, _(foursome)_ and you see fireworks when he spanks you. You’re blinding white, bright yellow, and flashy sparks all over. Your mind freezes shut. You can't move, you can barely formulate a legible thought. You come once under his grip and your entire body gives out to him, multiple times over. 

You hold Dirk's hips as his body shakes and eases up, flopping bellyflat against the bed. His knees are set apart, still buried to the hilt. He twitches so very beautifully while crying out.

You almost hit your head while tripping out of the bed and kicking your pants around in a haze, climbing back up from the top, throwing all the extra pillows you don't need right into the floor. It's a mess. You tiptoe around Dirk's bowed head and try to wait until he's all ready, but you can't keep yourself from touching him now that he's here. Your fingers bury in curly hair and pet at his scalp, rubbing semicircles atop his skull. His cat ears flutter. You run a soft hand down his shoulder blades, feel his muscles shiver. Trace the outline of his silly little tattoo. You're careful as though a hard push may make him fade away. (Which as far as you're concerned, could very well totally happen!!) and when he stirs, you hoist him up to kiss him like a doll.

He's so sensitive. 

He breathes into your mouth and wobbles into your arms, loosely hooking his hands around your shoulders. You don't want to move him around too much, so you just support his weight. You kiss at his neck and Dirk tips his head back for you, gives you room to work with. You nip at his collarbone to the tune of his hum.

Hey

He says, testing out his voice.

We did it in reverse.

Have we?

Dude…

You're supposed to do the foreplay before my panties drop.

You give out a hearty chuckle and he smiles into your mustache. Your fingers do a quick work of unhooking the collar around his neck while he chases at your lip, and his palms dig into your hair when you fling it away. You kiss like neither of you have much need for breath anymore, a loud and hungry thing, alive in its own right. Dirk tries to tug your tie off, fumbles with the buttons of your shirt, but you don't want to waste time with those. You miss kissing at his chest, dragging your teeth over a nipple. You hold him by the hips and he rolls against you, slow and deep. You feel him relax under your ministrations, content at the backseat, and also the gasp that builds up his chest and comes out in puffs when he slides all the way down to the knot and fits around it, plugged up tight.

Holy shit.

So all it took was for me to stop trying?

Mmm.

Is it good?

It's _wet._ I feel like no matter how i move it'll go bumping all over the place.

Oh wow thats funny!

Says Jake, grabbing you by the hips and grinding you around the thing for the pleasure of listening to the noise it makes, because he's an asshole. It's new, to feel like you're both filled up entirely and have more wiggle room than you know what to do with. It's not… bad. You kinda like how it hits every spot. It's very easy to get distracted just bouncing on it. You're lightheaded.

Jake sinks his teeth on you when it looks like you've stopped paying attention, dragging his erection over your thigh. He's diamond hard, you figure it'd be weirder if he didn't start frotting. Jake has no idea his skin is shimmering, and you don't intend on telling him, because he has this guilty self-conscious complex about inadvertently dosing you up on Hope, and you're really vibing with the white noise filling up your brain. 

Your dick.

*groans*

Its not going anywhere i just need a minute and ill be done i swear!

Nope.

Let me suck you off.

You dont have to.

Are you kidding? I'm offering. Free of charge.

Tik tok, pops, time's a wastin'

But i…

Jake,

It's of the utmost importance that you fuck my throat right now.

I want to be put to sleep after like a freshly powdered newborn.

You know he says yes, because he allows you to push him on his ass against the headboard and lay all over his hairy legs without as much as an argumentative peep. 

|  |   
---|---|---  
  
_Jesus shit. How are we still going?  
I don't have this much stamina._

|  | 

It's the power of love.

*slow, deliberate jerkoff motion.*  
  
You take a bit of pity on his neglected dick. It's engorged like it'll burst, and merely wrapping a hand around it squeezes precum out of the tip, which you use to smear down the head. You hold down when Jake bucks into your hand, indulging his bout of impatience when he's been so sweet to you all night, and are a little sad when you have to stop looking at him to work your way down the shaft. You realize with a little telltale pang in your gut that you miss him.

That came out wrong.

It's not that you _miss_ him, per se, you have the power to experience as many jakes as you'd like, but being with _your_ Jake, the one you've been cardiacally compromised to for most of your traceable runtime, saddles you with unnecessary… feelings. You can't believe you're doing this. You're in the middle of licking pre from under his foreskin and having an emotional reaction to it? Fuck off dude. _Grow a pair._

Though it’s hard to not feel his absence in your life, you think, as you tip your head to the side and let his cock slide down your tongue. Jake’s social presence is about as subtle as an elephant in pointe shoes, always fussing, prodding, teasing. He tastes of nothing but salt and sweat, melting under you. You let him take hold of your head and thrust into your throat without resistance, lazily rocking yourself on the tight pressure of the knot. An idle hand rubs circles around your dick. This is a grand greek bathhouse bash and you’re a lazy, spoiled concubine.

His mouth runs. He seems to delight in holding your hair between his clumsy fingertips, blubbering about a thousand things you can’t possibly comprehend but feel endeared to all the same, as long as he’s endeared by you. Jake stutters out your name a millisecond after invoking the Lord’s, working himself into a right frenzy, and you feel a sense of smug satisfaction wash over you. You don’t want him to stop. You’re afraid when he finally does, when his attention lapses, you’ll shrink into a cloud of smoke and ash and turn into a pile of nothing. You begin to whine without realizing it, the liquid heat in your gut bubbling up and tipping over, making it harder to breathe, lost in a mess of slick and spit. You squeeze your eyes shut, and for a blissful moment you’re nothing but the object of his undivided adoration.

You feel as though the toy in you throbs, unnaturally stirring, when a pulse runs through Jake’s cock and he spills into your mouth. You fail to process what’s happening where, trying to gulp around it while warmth spurts into you, heavy and filling and locked in tight. Somewhere in the abstract event horizon, you hear Jake apologize in a flustered stutter, feeling lukewarm come gush and spill from between your legs and wondering, with the certainty of a man spliced between bodies, if you’d be accurate to guess this is happening to more than just one singular, present you. You're narratively beaten up, floating in formless bliss. You catch a glimpse of green and a flash of teeth as the world flickers around you. Big warm hands wipe away the liquid from your cheeks, rub at your abused lips, and the last thing you hear is a rumbling laugh followed by a boyish Sweet chrissy Dirk youre such a mess… how are we ever going to get you cleaned up? As reality winks and spirals fully into black.

The hum of the spaceship engine makes your ears click.

You find yourself sore, gooey and light-years away from your desired universe, toppled over a japanese heating table in an empty trophy room. You aren't, by any stretch of the concept, a ridiculous cutesy little catboy, and you're irritated at how fucking bummed you are about it. While you struggle to regain your motor abilities, convincing yourself you don't care much about any of it, there's only one thought beaming at the back of your mind, brighter and brighter at every turn.

You're not done with Jake English, not by a long shot.

**Author's Note:**

> Jul 24/20 EDIT: Minor text alterations for readability reasons, this is now part 1 of Bell the Prince. thanks for reading :y


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